


Part Of Me

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: Burnt (2015)
Genre: Angst, Fatherhood, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Kid Fic, M/M, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-05-13 01:56:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19241488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: A face from the past reappears in Adam's life, bringing the kind of surprise he's not quite ready to deal with.Luckily, he doesn't have to struggle alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My eternal gratitude to Meg for cheerleading this fic and flailing with me over cute dads.

“Service!”

The plates were whisked from the pass by steady hands and carried away through the kitchen doors, the last of the day’s dinner service on its way to their guests. Adam straightened, rolling his shoulders, his spine creaking in protest at the time spent hunched over in the name of perfection. But there was a smile on his face, the success worth the hours of pain. Of penance.

The kitchen team started clean up around him, and Adam felt a swell of pride at what they’d achieved. He was no longer so self-centred to believe he could have done it alone. No, it had been a joint effort and he was immensely glad to call them his family; Helene, Max, David.

Tony.

The door swung open and, as if summoned by his thoughts, Tony appeared, smart in his suit and with a smile on his lips as his warm brown gaze lit upon Adam. A small nod was his silent confirmation that all had gone well, another service completed with flawless success.

Adam beamed back at him, sharing in the moment, a triumph made possible only because they had pooled their talents, come together to create something wonderful. And the only way Adam knows how to thank him is to keep doing what he does best: cooking, creating, and ensuring _Adam Jones at the Langham_ remains _the_ place to eat.

Tony ducked his head, bashful to be the sole focus of Adam’s brilliant grin, and maybe the colour in his cheeks could be attributed to the heat of the kitchen. Maybe not. One last glance, a shy smile, and Tony disappeared into the office.

Their routine now well established, clean up didn’t take long, and soon the kitchen was spotless once more, ready for the next day, the next service. Or for Adam, lingering after the others had gone, not quite ready to be done for the day, thoughts already turning to ways to tweak the turbot, potential improvements to the beef.

Dim lamplight still glowed through the frosted glass of the office, and Adam wasn’t quite alone. Tony was still in there, still working, and there was a strong possibility he hadn’t taken a break all day. Suddenly, Adam had a new purpose.

Tony looked up when Adam knocked, entered, eyebrows quirking at the plates in his hands.

“Figured you wouldn’t have eaten yet.”

“No.” Tony cleared a space amidst the papers across his desk. “Thank you.”

It was only something quick and easy, but no less delicious than anything else Adam created in the kitchen, and Adam sat too, joined him, just as keen for his reaction as ever.

“You used cardamom?”

“Yeah.”

“Mm.” Tony nodded to himself, considering. “Is good.”

Adam knew that was the truth. It was why he valued Tony’s opinion above any other; he told it like it was, didn’t pull his punches or humour him or pander to his ego. Brutal when he had to be, but always sincere, honest.

It was refreshing.

Something Adam was slowly learning to do was to take criticism. Somehow, it never seemed so bad coming from Tony. Critics spoke a load of shit, wrote reviews that were designed to catch their readers’ attention regardless of whether or not it was the truth, and Adam had no time for that crap. Let the food speak for itself. The smile on Tony’s face as he took another bite told him more than a thousand words ever could.

It meant a whole lot more, too.

Adam grabbed another other fork, joined Tony in the impromptu meal amongst the organized chaos of Tony’s desk, sharing the odd thought or idea for future menu options but mostly enjoying a companionable silence. When they were done, Adam collected up the plates, clearing them away to leave Tony in peace. He stopped at the door of the office, turned back to see Tony’s head already bent over whatever figures he was reviewing.

“Don’t work too late, Tones.”

Tony glanced up, gave him half a smile in acknowledgement. He said nothing, for they both knew it would be a lie.

* * * *

“Excuse me, Adam?”

Almost at the elevators, Adam slowed, turned back, and recognized Andrew from reception. The usually composed man looked a little uneasy. “Yeah?”

“There’s a woman at the front desk asking for you. Well, more…” He waved a hand in the air, searching for the right word. “ _Demanding_ to speak to you. Loudly and vehemently.”

“A woman?”

“She didn’t give her name.” Andrew frowned, wrinkled his nose in a grimace. “She’s angry.”

Huh. Adam’s mind rifled through potential candidates, wondering who in the long line of people he had pissed off would be calling on him now, and why. Anne Marie? But no, they had long since calmed the waters between them, most of it now safely under the bridge. There was nothing else for it but to follow Andrew and face whatever demon had decided to raise its head.

“Here he is! The superstar chef!”

The words were spat, bitter, an insult rather than praise, and coupled with a death glare levelled threateningly at Adam. The woman was striking, her pretty face twisted in anger, and entirely unfamiliar. Adam struggled to recall how he was supposed to know her, attempting a placating smile as his mind whirred. Her voice had the musical hint of a French accent, but it had been an age since he’d last been in France.

“I see you’ve fallen on your feet.” She gestured with a wide sweep of an arm, indicating the lavish hotel. So, that meant she most likely knew him from that hazy time when every day had bled into the next, a series of flying highs and crashing lows. _Drunk or stoned, stoned or drunk_. It would at least explain why he couldn’t recall her face. “And it does not surprise me that you have never given a second thought to those whose lives you fucked up.”

Adam knew he was missing some vital fact and dread knotted in his stomach. There had been a time he wouldn’t have given a damn about pissing someone off, not cared about the consequences of his actions. But he had changed, could recognize how badly he’d fucked up in the past, and it was no surprise that past was still haunting him.

He probably deserved it.

His confused lack of response prompted a scornful scoff. "You don’t even remember, do you?"

"Uh…" _Brilliant response, dumbass_. But Adam was still racking his brain, still too lost to think of an appropriate response. "Why don’t we talk about it? Let me make it up to you?" Whatever _it_ was. Really, it didn’t matter; Adam was putting his mistakes right, and this would be no exception.

"Oh, you are going to play your part. Starting now." She lunged forward, a sudden, darting movement, and Adam braced for a slap. Or worse. But it didn’t manifest, the woman instead veering aside and stooping over a stroller that had been parked up beside the desk, that Adam hadn’t even registered until now. She rose again and spun toward Adam, a child in her arms. Not a baby, a young toddler, maybe three or four? Adam didn’t know, nor could he have asked for his heart was lodged in his throat, his stomach twisting as the implication struck him with the force of a speeding train, his mind instantly rebelling at the thought.

_It’s not possible…_

The child was thrust against his chest, and he automatically clutched on with numb arms before the ghost from the past stepped away.

"Meet your daughter. She’s your problem now!"

"What?" Adam struggled to find his voice, mouth dry with dread. "No, it… I can’t be…" 

"You had better fucking believe it. And it’s time you accepted responsibility for once in your wretched life."

Even if Adam could have forced his tongue to form words, it clearly wasn’t the time to argue his newfound sense of culpability and maturity. What he most desperately wanted to say was that, despite having crawled back out of the gutter, he was in no way ready to look after a child.

Even just the thought of having a young life dependent on him was terrifying.

“You are disturbing our guests." Tony’s no-nonsense, professional tone was like a balm to Adam’s mounting panic, appearing from nowhere and instantly soothing the deafening rush of blood, the pounding of his heart. A well-timed rescue, just like always. "If you do not have a reservation, I must ask you to leave."

“Oh, don’t worry. I am leaving.” A cold smile twisted at her lips, her gaze never leaving Adam. "I can’t say it’s been a pleasure seeing you again, Adam.”

Adam shook his head, an attempt at denial, at trying to wake from whatever nightmare he was trapped in, but although she left – a swift exit through the front door of the Langham and in a heartbeat gone from sight – the evidence of her visit remained, a squirming weight in Adam’s arms.

“Adam?” Tony’s face was a picture of confusion, the mirror of Adam’s own. “What is this?”

Adam looked down at the bundle he held against his chest. Wide blue eyes stared up at him, just as bewildered and offering only more questions.

“Mine, apparently.”

The small face scrunched up and, as if to express her displeasure at such a notion, the child began to bawl.


	2. Chapter 2

**HELP**

A second text message arrived mere seconds later, as if Adam had suddenly remembered his manners.

**PLEASE**

Tony could hear crying even before he’d reached the door of room 659, the kind of prolonged, ragged wail only an unhappy child could make, and the sight that greeted him as he let himself in only added to the air of chaos. Plates and cups covered almost every surface, random articles of clothing were strewn across the rest plus the floor and bed, which had certainly not been made. And, amidst it all, stood the travel crib donated by Helene, containing the tiny red-faced, tear-stained source of the noise.

“I don’t know what to do.” Adam was perched on the edge of the bed, knee jackhammering rapidly up and down, more desperate and lost than Tony had seen him in a long time. “She won’t stop crying.”

“And you thought _I_ would know?” It was almost laughable, Adam seeking help in childrearing from a very single, very childless maître d’. Tony’s lack of expertise in this area was a given. “Why not call Helene?”

“Because you…” Adam shrugged, helpless. “You always know what to do. And you’re good with kids. I’ve seen you with Lily.”

That was, Tony wanted to argue, an entirely different situation, but the very fact Adam had requested help at all was a near unprecedented phenomenon, and he looked so uncharacteristically flustered that Tony instantly vowed to do anything he could to ease his burden. He had seen Adam agitated and jittery before, years ago, and back then he had been powerless to help; Adam a strung out shell of his former self, refusing any attempt to offer a hand in support.

It was an image that still vividly haunted his nightmares even all this time later.

Now, however, Adam had actively sought him out, and was looking at Tony expectantly, willing him to perform a miracle.

Miracles may be beyond the purview of a maître d’, but years of dealing with fussy patrons, finding solutions to the most peculiar requests, and smoothing out perceived slights may just serve him well.

“Oh, Sophia, _corazoncita_.” He gave his full attention to the crying child, carefully scooping her from the crib and gathering her into a comfortable hold against his chest. Gently, he brushed a lock of chestnut hair back from her face, ducking his head to meet her eyes in an attempt to forge a connection. “ _¿Que pasa?_ ” The girl blinked at him, the flow of tears slowly subsiding into wet sniffles as she listened to his voice, something in it breaking through her distress. Her response to hearing the Spanish dislodged something in Tony’s memory. He recalled the accent of the girl’s mother, the time Adam had spent in Paris, and while his own French was far from fluent, he drew on the little he knew, patching something together. “ _Tu es en sécurité ici avec ton papa._ ”

Sophia stared at him for a few more seconds, maybe considering his words, maybe just trying to figure out who the strange man was, before suddenly lurching forwards and wrapping her small arms around Tony’s neck, clinging to him in a tight hug.

“Oh.” A little stunned at this show of trust, Tony quickly gathered his wits, gently rubbing her back, soothing, mumbling more words of reassurance in whatever language presented itself on his tongue. Sophia maybe didn’t understand every word, but perhaps just the calming tone was settling in itself.

Eventually, her grip loosened, and she sat up a little straighter in his arms. The tears were no longer flowing, but her face was a mess. With no thought to the state of his suit, he tugged his sleeve down and used the cuff to carefully wipe her cheeks and nose dry.

“That’s better.” Not to mention a relief. Tony was operating entirely on instinct, taking his cues from the child, and he was amazed to find it was somehow working. A glance at Adam told him he was just as astounded, watching Tony comfort his daughter in stunned silence. Sophia sniffed again, recapturing his attention. “Now, can you tell me what is wrong?"

Sophia’s gaze darted away, small hands reflexively clutching at Tony’s shirt. Her lower lip trembled, and Tony realised she didn’t know how to answer that question, how to express what had her so upset. Before the effort could overwhelm her, he quickly changed tack and tried something more direct.

“Are you hungry?”

Now she had a specific feeling to consider Sophia seemed less anxious. She took a few seconds to consider her answer, then shook her head no.

“Are you sleepy?”

This time her response was quicker, another adamant shake of her head. Tony quickly realised they could be playing this game of question-and-answer all day, and suddenly remembered something that might – just possibly – help. “Oh!” He shifted the girl to his other arm so he could delve into his pocket, Sophia watching with shy curiosity as he withdrew a pack of brightly coloured crayons. Andrew had found them, gathering dust in lost and found, and thought they might now find a use.

“Would you like to draw?”

Sophia’s eyes went round, looking at him, and then back at the crayons with obvious but bashful excitement. For the first time, a hint of a smile crept onto her face, and she nodded. “Okay. Good.” Tony beamed back at her, amazed that whatever he was doing appeared to be working. “Let me find you some paper.”

He set the girl on a clear patch of floor, and fetched a pad of Langham headed notepaper from the nightstand. Before long, Sophia was happily scribbling away, and Tony sank down beside Adam on the bed.

“How the fuck did you do that?”

“ _Adam!_ ” Tony admonished, gesturing pointedly at the child on the floor, thankfully otherwise occupied, and Adam’s eyes instantly widened as he realised his error.

“Shit.” It was an automatic response, and Adam caught himself too late, clapped a hand over his mouth to prevent anything else inappropriate slipping out. It was almost comical, and Tony fought the smile that was threatening to emerge, only for Adam to be the one to snort a laugh. They both descended into laughter, the tension in the room easing just a little. Adam sobered quickly, however, his laughter trailing away, as it hit him just how unprepared, how _unsuited_ he was for the role he suddenly found himself playing.

He pushed a hand through his already dishevelled hair, took a shaky breath. “I can’t do this, Tony.” His voice sounded as unsteady and wrecked as he looked. “I don’t know how to be a father.”

It was true that Adam hadn't had the best role model to learn from, but he was doing himself a disservice by being so quick to write off his own ability to adapt.

“I imagine most parents feel the same, at first,” Tony assured him. “You will learn.”

Adam shook his head, unable to see a future in which he didn’t disastrously fuck up. “I can’t even look after myself. How am I supposed to raise a kid?”

“It won't be easy.” Tony wasn’t going to lie, say that everything would be fine, but neither was he going to let Adam struggle through on his own. He reached out, gave Adam’s arm a reassuring squeeze, letting his hand linger to ensure Adam was listening. “But you are not alone.”

Adam’s eyes searched his, amazed that, despite all the myriad ways he’d disrupted Tony’s life over the years, he was still somehow here by his side, willingly taking on his problems, sharing the load. He placed his hand over Tony’s, giving it a brief squeeze of his own, showing his gratitude in place of the words he couldn’t find.

They sat in silence for a while, watching Sophia studiously decorate the pages with bright squiggles, creating the kind of designs that would have made Pollock proud.

“She’s very clever,” Tony observed after a few minutes. She may not have yet learned the finer points of artistic perspective, but was clearly aware of the world around her, including understanding more than one language. “Are you certain she’s yours?”

“Ha ha,” Adam deadpanned, shooting Tony a withering look. But then he sighed and hitched one shoulder in a shrug. Tony belatedly realised he’d struck upon something that had obviously been niggling at Adam. “I wasn’t exactly there to register her birth.” He gestured to the papers piled haphazardly across the top of the dresser, the records Sophia’s mother had helpfully left along with the stroller and child. Having not even known about her birth, he had understandably not been present to register as her father, but as far as he’d been able to remember, the dates seemed to work out. Or… “Maybe this all just a cruel trick.”

It was difficult to determine which option Adam would prefer. Tony, however, had already seen enough evidence in just the past two days to leave him no reason to doubt Sophia’s paternity. “She has your eyes and your temper,” he said, as if it were obvious. And, to him, it was. “Of course she’s yours.”

That startled a laugh out of Adam. “Thanks. I think.” This time, his gaze remained on Tony, thoughtful now his panic had abated. “Have you ever wanted kids?”

The question took him by surprise, his answer a defensive reflex. “No.” Too quick, too definite. Adam raised an eyebrow, curious.

“Really?”

Tony relented with a shrug, scratching at the tip of his nose, suddenly vulnerable under Adam’s shrewd stare. He’d thought about it, of course, but only in the kind of detached way everyone likely thinks about what the future could hold for them. While being gay was no longer a sticking point, with running a hotel and restaurant, not to mention the distinct lack of romance in his life, the possibility of children had never been anything more substantial than a daydream, just slightly out of reach. “I have never been in a position for it to really be an option.”

“You’d make a great dad.”

“Pssh.”

“I mean it, Tones. You’re kind and caring, but you also take no sh—crap.”

“Thank you,” Tony chuckled, echoing Adam’s earlier words with a smile. “I think.”

As nice as it was to hear just how highly Adam regarded him, Tony couldn’t help but be disheartened that he would likely never get the chance to find out, never discover how good a father he could be. Watching the young girl happily playing now after responding to his attempts to console her was a bittersweet pleasure as the realisation that he may never experience that with a child of his own sunk in.

Tony stood, shaking free the despondent thoughts before they could catch hold too strongly. This wasn’t the time to dwell on his own distant hopes; there were things to be dealt with here and now. Chief among which was the dreadful state of the room. He began gathering the used plates and cups to take back down to the kitchen.

There was a grunt from the bed as Adam realised what he was doing, a sound of irritation directed not at Tony but himself and his own failings. “You don’t have to clean up my mess, Tony. Not anymore.”

He wasn’t referring to just the dirty plates and scattered laundry.

“It’s not a mess.” Tony wasn’t talking about the clutter either. A few plates in need of a dishwasher were a minor problem in the grand scheme of things, and one that could be easily remedied. There were other matters Adam needed to be focused on, and if Tony could make that easier by dealing with the smaller problems, then that’s what he would do. “She’s your daughter, and she deserves better.”

Adam visibly bristled. “Better than me, you mean?”

“No! That is _not_ what I mean.” Trust Adam to twist his words, still expecting criticism even after everything Tony had just said. “I have no doubt you will be the best father you can be.” The vehemence in Tony’s voice worked to soothe Adam’s anger, the indignation in his eyes giving way to incredulity, surprise at Tony’s unwavering belief in him, his faith that Adam would rise to a challenge that he hadn’t spent two years and a million oysters preparing for. And Tony wasn’t just trying to reassure him; he truly meant it. “But a hotel room is no place to raise a child.”

“I don’t have many options right now, Tones.”

And that was true. Although the restaurant was now a success, Adam was still in no position, financially or otherwise, to rent a place on his own in the centre of London. And although he would never admit it, Tony had come to enjoy having Adam around, his presence refilling a void he’d been trying, and failing, to ignore over the past few years. Tony had opened his mouth before he’d had time to check the thought that immediately burst to life in his mind. “You could stay with me. Both of you. My apartment is not big, but is better than this.”

“I’m not asking you to—”

“I know, I am _offering_. I want…” There were so many things Tony wanted, but to give voice to many of them would be to bare his heart to more potential rejection. “If I can help you earn your third star, perhaps I can help you in this, too.”

Adam stared at him, his expression inscrutable, and Tony didn’t dare guess at what might be going through his head, fearing he’d revealed too much. But Adam already _knew_ , didn’t he? Still, he couldn’t help but try to further justify his offer.

“Besides, I’m sure being somewhere more homely, more permanent, would help Sophia. She must be feeling unsettled at the moment.”

“Yeah.” Adam nodded, unable to argue with that logic, but reluctant to be any more of a burden than he already was.

“Think about it.” Tony continued stacking plates, the motions familiar and ingrained, an action performed through muscle memory while his mind was engaged with navigating the new obstacles Adam had inadvertently dropped into their lives. But as with every hurdle he had ever faced, Tony knew it was surmountable.

He just needed Adam to believe that too.

“Now,” he said as he carried his armload to the door, pre-empting a new bout of panic by the way Adam twitched when he noticed his intention to leave. “Perhaps Sophia would like her daddy to draw with her?”

At the sound of her name, the girl looked up, staring at Tony with those blue eyes so astonishingly identical to her father’s. Then she turned to Adam, studying him with careful consideration, turning over the suggestion, before coming to a decision. Raising an arm, she held out a green crayon, clutched in her tiny fist. From the way Adam blinked, Tony guessed he’d been braced for rejection, and it took him a second to react, relief flooding his face, delighted grin breaking free.

“Sure, kiddo.” He lowered himself to the floor, accepting the proffered crayon and settling into a comfortable position. As certain as he could be that the current crisis had been averted, Tony opened the door only to pause when he heard his name.

“Tony?”

Hand still on the door handle, Tony turned to look back at Adam, cross-legged on the floor beside his daughter, crayon dwarfed in his large hand, and his heart stuttered at the sight.

“Thank you.”

Adam’s eyes held Tony’s, expressing all the rest, everything he didn’t know how to say, and Tony read the gratitude there. A rare thing, for Adam Jones to ask for, accept, and be thankful for help, and Tony didn’t quite trust himself to speak. He gave a nod, a jerk of his chin, and left father and daughter to bond.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from 'Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel)' by Billy Joel. The other official song of this fic is David Bowie's 'Kooks'.


End file.
